


okay

by renecdote



Series: hc_bingo 2019 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mostly Fluff, References to off-screen injuries, Some angst, bruce and baby dick content, for all your bruce and baby dick content needs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-30 06:31:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20810114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: “It’s okay, chum,” Bruce says, fingers carding through his ward’s shampoo-soft hair, still damp at the roots. “You’re not hurting me.”





	okay

**Author's Note:**

> For my hurt/comfort bingo square 'cuddling'. Also fills whumptober day 8: stab wound.

“Is this okay?” Dick asks anxiously. He’s plastered against Bruce’s side, but his muscles are held stiffly, as afraid to be close as he is to be far away right now. Dogging Bruce’s every step since he returned to the cave, battered and bleeding, but never near enough to hang off his arms or shoulders as he usually does. Worry choking the space between them until Bruce had patted the couch beside him and coaxed Dick over from where he’d wedged himself against the opposite arm.

If Alfred were here, firm words and gentle prodding would have given Bruce no choice but to go to bed. _You are too old to be sleeping on the couch, sir, especially with a hole in your side._ Bruce is still too restless for sleep though. If not for the pint-sized shadow bleeding more concern than Bruce had blood, he would still be down in the Cave, going through case files or tinkering with batarangs. Late night reruns of old British murder mysteries are a compromise. Dick won’t go to bed until Bruce does, unless Bruce can coax him toward asleep while the blue light of the television washes over them.

“It’s okay, chum,” Bruce says, fingers carding through his ward’s shampoo-soft hair, still damp at the roots. “You’re not hurting me.”

Dick relaxes a little at that. He’s all sharp angles, pointed elbows and knees, even his jaw digging into Bruce’s clavicle. But Dick is talking about the stab wound, not the hundred other aches and pains decorating his body. Bruce doesn’t feel too badly about not mentioning those; the less Dick has to worry about him, the better. Bruce is the parent, he’s the one who is supposed to fret over every scrape, every paper cut, every hurt big or small, not Dick.

“Is there a reason you were waiting up for me?” he asks, rubbing his hand up one skinny arm. There are goosebumps prickling Dick’s skin so he pulls the crocheted throw over both of them. “You were supposed to be in bed hours ago.”

Dick’s answer is mumbled into a corner of the blanket.

“What was that?”

“I had a bad dream.” Dick’s voice is still quiet, like it won’t come true if he whispers, frantic and tearful, fingers twisting Bruce’s shirt. “You went out an’ got hurt an’ I tried to get to you but I wasn’t fast enough and—and you _died_, B.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Bruce wraps both arms around Dick and it hurts, a sharp throb of pain that doesn’t quite level out, but he doesn’t care. “It was just a dream, Dickie.”

“But you did get hurt,” Dick protests. He sniffles and rubs at his face with one pyjama sleeve. 

Bruce doesn’t know what to say. He can’t promise that tonight was a fluke, that he’ll never get hurt again. He can’t say that it wasn’t that bad, that he’s had worse, because Dick doesn’t need to know how close to a fatal injury Bruce has come. He certainly doesn’t need to know that it has happened more than once. 

“I’m sorry,” is what he says, words murmured against Dick’s hair. _I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m sorry you have to worry about me. I’m sorry I’m not a better parent. Not a normal parent._

Dick clings and Bruce clings back. He’s never been good with words, not even when it counts the most. Hell—_especially_ not when it counts the most. Usually it’s Dick filling the silences, his endless chatter leading Bruce to the right things to say. Maybe there isn’t always a right thing to say though. Maybe there doesn’t always need to be anything said at all. Maybe it’s enough for Dick to press his ear over Bruce’s heart, for Bruce to hold him close for as long as it takes for that steady beating to chase away the nightmare.

It’s okay, Bruce says again, but this time he says with the strength of his hug and the gentle kiss he presses against his kid’s crown.

It’s okay, with a thumb brushing away warm tears.

It’s okay. 

And maybe, for now, it is.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is [here](https://renecdote.tumblr.com/)


End file.
